The Devil Lies In Silence
by alicemuralice
Summary: Based on the short story 'The Devil's Foot', set years after the movie but also based heavily on Granada canon.  Where the boys go on holiday, Watson does a lot of worrying, and they pick up a case by accident.  M in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**The Devil Lies In Silence, Part 1**

* * *

Watson had just crossed the threshold of the little cottage he and his colleague shared during their small country holiday, for purposes relating to the great detective's health and state of mind. Not that Holmes had felt any such rest was necessary and had put up a great fuss over the whole thing, but Watson for his part was relieved when his friend eventually conceded to the trip – but only once Watson himself promised to accompany him. He had planned to go anyway to keep an eye on Holmes, to make sure he used this respite for its intended purpose and not use the seclusion of the remote Cornish peninsula as an excuse to descend into either one of his madcap science experiments or the contents of his precious morocco box. Watson gave an audible exhalation of breath, placing his hat and cane by the door as his brows twitched together. He had quite a lot of time to think on it, what with being in his own house, away from Baker Street and unable to look after his companion, and had decided that Holmes' dependence on both these activities had grown increasingly worse in his years of absence. He didn't know which was more difficult to watch anymore - the sometimes vain struggles to create problems his brain considered to be of appropriate scale, or the glazed and defeated eyes that spoke of, as the detective would often say, "no other possible stimulant."

As much as he knew Holmes was much cleverer than that (and much too fond of himself), the poor doctor had learned to entertain that gravest of possibilities; that one day he would walk through that door as he always did only to discover that his dear partner, the closest friend he's ever had, lying in a pool of his own blood amidst the scattered debris of whatever hadn't worked this time. He refused to think on the alternative – the stillness of a form propped up in a chair, for all appearances normal except for the head drooped to one side, sleeves rolled, and the sinister sight of the syringe hanging limp from one cold hand. Watson would much rather the man perished from fighting the good fight against some vile criminal and tripping up…anything to escape the fate of being killed by his own mind, his own private freedom. The notion of Holmes dying in silence drained of his overabundant essence of life unnerved him in a way few things did.

Silence he was accustomed to, as it was in most cases preferable to the pain and brutality of most of his medical experiences. But it was not the way of Sherlock Holmes.

It was with these thoughts so prominent in his mind that the two of them arrived at their small seaside abode near Poldhu Bay two weeks ago. Watson's fears had been realized on that first day when he walked in on a hastily hidden forearm, a foot slammed on the table as he approached – a foolish attempt to hide the small black box beneath. He was still, gripping the back of Holmes' chair a bit tighter than necessary, and turning to leave muttered something about collecting the luggage as he passed. He refused to watch these self-destructive habits his friend was dead-set on pursuing. As he went to close the door behind him, he caught the barely audible 'thank you' from the other room just before the latch clicked shut. Dropping his hold of the doorknob as if it burned him, he stalked down the hall and outside, too busy to notice that the lack of something to hold made it impossible for his hands to stop shaking.

* * *

It had been a few days since their arrival. Their time was mostly spent roaming the Cornish countryside in relative peace, excluding the few occasions when one of them – usually Holmes – would break the somber atmosphere in favor of purely academic conversation. These exchanges were never long and once quiet had again settled, Watson was always left with feelings of inexplicable guilt and sadness that he didn't want to face. The sharp, hawk-like gaze never turned to meet his own – the rich voice dull with a note of coldness that was not the product of coastal air. That invigorated spirit seemed gone.

It had been several years since he went to live with Mary. He still saw Holmes on regular occasions, but he could see the toll his absence had taken. Before, Holmes had wheedled, bribed, manipulated, and used every logical argument his brain could produce, trying to force Watson to see reason and return home. Watson wasn't making sense, and as long as there could still be hope, Holmes found that infuriating.

But now Holmes knew he wasn't coming back, and he was slowly giving up. The experiments began to take on an air of distraction rather than genuine inquiry. And the black depression that accompanied this behavior – and the fact that he was trying so hard to stifle it – was almost worse than the silent death of Watson's imagination.

"Where there be slabs of granite…ancient tombs." Holmes sat leaning on a small jut of rock situated next to one such granite slab, one of many similar monoliths that dotted the rocky coast, his stony eyes fixed before him. "Scattered throughout the length and breadth of this peninsula."

Watson glanced at him, leaning an arm against the stone pillar. "Like the sea."

_Like your thoughts. Everything about you is spread so thin._

"I suppose death is always with us."

He hadn't meant to say it, but it was too late. Still, he was surprised when Holmes actually looked at him…and was shocked by the look of loss and pain his eyes burned through to the back of his scalp before again glancing away.

Watson's tongue went numb. The look had been long enough to not be imagined, but brief enough to tell him it had been some secret accidentally told.

"Quite so."

Holmes' voice said nothing of the mutiny in his eyes and after a second of pause he pushed away from his seat and began a slow, sedate pace away from his companion, his retreating form looking over-swaddled in layers against the cold. A physical manifestation of the man's many impenetrable walls.

This time Watson did notice the shake in his hands, rocking like the lid of a teakettle. Thankfully, the unforgiving stone was a more than suitable surface for alleviating the steam.

* * *

Holmes took his walks alone after that. Not out of any desire to avoid the good doctor, Watson perceived it as the man making an effort to actually take advantage of this time of convalescence. Whether this was just a show for Watson's benefit, he couldn't say. He would have been worried by the increased amounts of solitude, but there had been no sightings of any scientific-looking instruments and of the cocaine and its telltale side effects he saw not a trace. The doctor considered that maybe the break was doing Holmes some good after all. There was less bitterness in his laugh now, his eyes occasionally crinkled with real amusement during their dinnertime discussions. Watson spent less time absently fingering the scar on his neck, absorbed in thinking about how all this could have ended differently.

"Gentlemen, I urge you to consult the police. Holmes is a sick man!"

Where the mighty walk, trouble is bound to follow. Watson was not a man prone to hasty judgment, especially where a client or patient was concerned, but he found himself hating the kindly faced village vicar and his haunted-looking companion as they sat across from him, even as he stood to offer them tea. He hated himself for not expecting something like this to happen, cases always seemed to follow them wherever they went. That any such person should dare to intrude on his friend's much-needed rest was outrageous and it took all of his impeccable respect for propriety to not dump the hot liquid all over the other man's lap.

"This is a matter of extreme urgency, Doctor. I'm afraid Mr. Holmes is the only man who can truly help us."

"Oh, is that so? How extremely fortunate for you, then." Watson turned to see Holmes walking through the door from outside, looking slightly ridiculous with the thick wool scarf he wore covering his hat and draped over his shoulder, and though it was not sunny outside he wore the dark round glasses that had been a gift from Watson ages ago. He looked like a lunatic Eskimo. Watson sighed.

"Holmes…."

"Now now, Watson," he shed his coat and dropped it carelessly into an unoccupied chair. "We can't very well leave these gentlemen to the mercy of the police, however much an improvement they may be over our own official acquaintances." His eyes flashed, lips twitching upward. _You worry too much._

_If only you wouldn't make it so I have to_, his own look said and Holmes sighed before turning to the two anxious faces watching him.

"Now, how may I be of service?"

* * *

Watson hadn't really believed Mr. Tregennis – the vicar's gaunt companion – when he'd told his remarkable story. A sister and two brothers attacked sometime in the night, the sister killed and the brothers driven to insanity by what they'd seen, or by some other diabolical means. Holmes was, of course, immediately fascinated and requested that they make for the Tregennis house as soon as possible.

"Holmes, don't you think this is a little counterproductive?" Watson murmured in Holmes' ear as they approached the house behind their two guides, the building looking bleached and unnatural against the dark cliffs. The other man's eyes flicked in his direction in such a way that was more a reaction to their sudden close proximity than to Watson's words. Thankfully, he was no longer wearing the glasses. His speed seemed to increase by the tiniest fraction.

"Nonsense, my good man. I believe my '_fragile state of mind_' has gleaned all it can from my period of ineptitude. It is now time to once again put it to its proper use of dazzling the locales with deductions my gran could read from her tea leaves." His particular shade of bland sarcasm was back, it seemed. Watson could already feel the knot of tension between his shoulders.

"Well, do try to not put yourself through too much trouble, will you?" His own tone was biting as he held the front door open.

Holmes stopped dead in front of him, so quick Watson was momentarily taken aback. The detective was looking at him with that quiet ferocity that had always made Watson second-guess himself in the past, but he'd always been able to overcome. Since living with Mary, that look had shown up less and less until he'd almost forgotten what it felt like. Now, he was nearly shamed by how quickly the blood rushed to his face.

"I make no promises," Holmes replied softly, breaking the moment of silence. _But I will try, for you._

Watson heard the unspoken words as clearly as if they had passed his friend's lips. His own twitched upward in response.

"I'm not patching you up if anything happens." An empty threat, as his own voice was strangely off-balance.

There was another moment where Holmes lips curved the slightest bit as well before he gave a curt nod that said _Agreed_ and they entered the house.

Watson nearly fainted when they entered the _room_.

There was a small table, cards laid across it as if there'd been a game interrupted, and in the chair directly facing the door, body rigid and eyes rolled into the back of his head….

Was Holmes.

It was Watson's greatest fear somehow in the flesh and blood.

The face looked even gaunter, his features arranged in an expression of absolute terror, dark hair tousled, his long fingers clutching desperately at a throat that would never flow with air again. Watson felt the panic rise in his chest, making it hard to breathe. Holmes was so _still_. It was the overdose vision, but a thousand times worse. So unnaturally still….

"Watson. _Watson!_ Wake up, man!"

Watson blinked. The Holmes in the chair was replaced by the Holmes very-much-alive as the detective's aquiline face filled his vision. Watson looked over his shoulder at the chair. The body in it was not that of his partner, but a dark haired woman who must have been Mr. Tregennis' sister, Brenda. The whites of her eyes seemed to stare accusingly at him as he gulped, quickly regaining his composure. He looked again at the real Holmes and his heart fell when he saw the concern his eyes, around his mouth. Things only he ever got to see.

He cleared his throat and straightened. "My apologies, I…my leg feels something terrible in this chill." The lie was directed more towards the two other men in the room giving him questioning looks. To Holmes he thought desperately, _Don't push it now. Save the prodding for later._

Holmes waited another second, as if to ensure he really was alright. _Here's hoping I'm not putting _myself _in trouble instead,_ Watson thought with a touch of bitterness, embarrassed by his inappropriate display. But Holmes eventually turned sharply from him and began his systematic investigation, inspecting the body as well as the fireplace directly behind it, the mantle, and other invisible points of interest. Watson watched him move about the room blankly, taking notes of his findings as if on autopilot.

The horrific sight of Holmes' body in that chair would never leave the doctor's memory.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Devil Lies In Silence, Part 2**

* * *

"It won't do, Watson. It simply won't do!" It was the next day and they had just come from examining Brenda Tregennis' body for clues, the only thing of any note being a ring of distinctly exotic making hung round her neck. A lover's token surely, but they asked the housekeeper if she had any knowledge of any suitors pursuing Brenda, to which she said that she had none. Other than that, Watson could see nothing that might hint at a culprit in this bizarre circumstance. But he could not see the things Holmes could.

The weather hadn't improved at all, but it was mercifully windless as they laid out a blanket atop a cliff overlooking the grey waves. Against usual protocol, Holmes had decided to move outside as he digested his evidence, and while Watson suspected this was yet another gesture just to quell the doctor's worry about his health, he was still pleased Holmes was deciding to be so thoughtful for a change. He even went so far as to insist Watson join him.

"It would be rather indecent of me to leave you out at this point, old boy," he'd said, a little over-zealously. He clapped Watson on the shoulder as he dashed out the door.

_This is the first case we've had together in years, no wonder he's nervous._

But as they sat together now, all traces of nerves were gone as they bounced deductions back and forth. Or rather, Holmes laid out the details while Watson added his two-cense. It was just like old times.

"Mr. Tregennis admitted to being with his siblings in the house the night before they were found. He left at approximately eleven o'clock and, from the stride length of the tracks around the house, returned quickly to the vicarage and did not return again until just this morning, and again when he arrived with us." He tapped staccatos sporadically against the rocky ground with the end of his walking stick, putting his own method to the madness. "I also observed his tracks within the room and just before he left he stood by the fireplace, which had been lit last night."

"It was quite humid last night, which begs to question why a fire was needed at all."

"Exactly." Holmes pressed an index finger to his lips in thought. "And the chairs were unmoved, cards still on the table, and it was already past their usual hour for bed."

"Which means it must have happened only moments after Mr. Tregennis left…." Watson stroked his mustache, brow furrowed as he struggled to wrap his mind around facts he was sure were staring him right in the face. "But what of this mysterious figure Mr. Tregennis says his brother saw from out the window? They never investigated, perhaps some fiend bent on doing harm?"

Holmes sighed, his tone close to annoyed. "My dear Watson, last night poured with rain so hard he wouldn't have been able to see the bushes just outside the window, let alone some 'mysterious figure' standing on the path some three yards away." His fingers danced atop the cane's handle in thinly veiled agitation. "Mr. Tregennis' already admitted to being in bad blood with his siblings over financial matters and we have only his word that this strange figure ever existed." He scoffed, none too kindly. "I think we can agree by the use of simple common sense that there is absolutely nothing _supernatural_ about this case, merely a scenario which at this point seems obscure in its solution."

He paused and stared at the whitecaps bellow, briefly consumed with thought, before inhaling sharply through flared nostrils. "Well, no use theorizing over ghouls and banshees, perhaps we should simply enjoy the view until clearer data is presented."

There was a pause, in which Watson stared at his partner as if he'd finally gone mentally catatonic.

"…Holmes."

"Contrary to what you may have been led to believe, I am quite capable of taking a respite from my duties," His dark hair rustled as he pulled his hat further down over his ears. "It's simply illogical to pursue a course of action based on such…superfluous information."

When Watson refused to stop staring, Holmes huffed impatiently at him. "If you will recall, doctor, I am on _holiday_. The case can wait."

The staring still didn't stop. This time it was joined by a dropped jaw.

"Really, Watson, that's rather undignified of you. There's no need to act so upset."

Watson gave an equally undignified snort, shifting his position so his weight rested on his left hand, the other arm propped up on his knee. He leaned in to squint accusingly at his partner. "Don't be coy, Holmes, you _never_ rest on a case. The only time I've ever seen you rest you were dying of a rare infectious disease you supposedly picked up in an opium den and didn't see fit to inform me you were _faking_."

"You're not being very fair, Watson," Holmes sniffed, feigning indignation. "I had to fool you into believing I was ill or our man never would have confessed. And you're an atrocious liar." He sounded so infuriatingly self-righteous.

"And _you_ are lying through your teeth – _again_. I'll not be roped into another one of your masochistic plots when you only end up lying half-dead in a ditch somewhere! I _know_ you do it to me on purpose!"

Holmes stared at him, suddenly too intense for Watson's liking. "I told you I could make no promises."

The doctor wavered. There was that look again. He was finding it hard to remember what they were arguing about. He tried to smirk, only half succeeding. "And I was so hoping you'd have grown out of that by now. You certainly aren't getting any younger, you know."

"Ah." The return smile didn't reach those sharp, calculating eyes. "But what's that they say about the old tiger sensing the end?"

The smirk disappeared, a familiar coldness spreading in his lungs. And just when he thought the holiday had done some actual good. Damn this case. He should have known.

Watson had to struggle with the sudden urge to hit him, to snap him out of this ridiculously melodramatic attitude. It was sickening. He hated when his friend was like this. Dealing with Holmes' weaknesses always brought out the worst in _him_ as well. He clenched his fist tight in the blanket.

"At least you have your precious solution to make the going smoother." Holmes looked startled, before clearing his throat and looking away. Watson would have regretted it if this whole thing wasn't reminding him painfully of one of the reasons he'd left in the first place. He felt disgusted and petty and right now he didn't care.

"Actually, I buried it."

It took him half a second, but then his thoughts silenced themselves in mind-numbing shock.

"What, the solution?"

"And the syringe, yes. Buried deep within that romantically infamous enigma that is Brittainia's seaside, never to be retrieved again."

Watson blinked, working through his surprise, before remembering it must be another lie. A cruel one to tell, but it had to be a lie. Holmes would never rid himself of his crutches when he had so few to begin with, he would dissolve without them. Watson waited for the catch, the flick of the jaw muscles that would indicate trickery. But the way Holmes stayed staring straight ahead, watching Watson without looking at him, was almost despondent.

It had to be a lie.

"You didn't."

Still without looking at him, Holmes reached into his right-hand pocket and drew forth the morocco casing, opening it and placing it between them. So calm, in that way that said he'd known how this whole conversation would go before it even began. Watson really hated that, too. Long fingers grazed the back of the doctor's hand as he pulled away. Gently, filled with quiet hope.

The case was empty. The syringe and the solution containers were all gone. Watson stared in disbelief.

"That…doesn't mean anything. You could have taken them out before we left the house; it's probably at the bottom of your suitcase. You've been cruel before, Holmes, but this is absurd – "

And suddenly his face was right there, leaned in with his breath ghosting between them. Dark, and fruity, and when mixed with the salt tang of the air started a shiver at the base of his spine that had nothing to do with the elements. Watson froze, like he was afraid to make a wrong move. Which didn't make sense, because it was _Holmes_ and….

"You did not return home."

A strand of charcoal hair streaked across his left cheek and stirred in the breeze. Watson hadn't even noticed when it picked up.

"I have tried to convince you with deceit and trickery. However, due to your annoying sense of integrity and excessive hard-headedness, all experiments with such tactics have failed, so I have been forced – in your absence – to contemplate a more direct approach."

Icy fingers pushed their way through the gaps of his fist, warming quickly from the entangled contact.

"And while the addition of a case is an unforeseen impediment, my goals are uncomplicated. You will not be obligated to act if that is not your wish; I only want to communicate _my _honest opinion of the necessity of our friendship. What I feel to be the true nature of our combined energies."

- how was his voice so blasted _calm_ when he was so close, of course Watson knew how he felt, he'd known for years, since not long after they first started together, but that didn't change the fact that he was _married_ now and this was so very illegal –

"So before our last time together is over and you go dashing back to that woman you so foolishly married who has no _idea_ how outrageously fortunate she is, I want to spell things out for you."

The brims of their hats were clashing painfully against his skull; his own bowler had been pushed so far back it now sat in danger of toppling off – and still Holmes pressed on, eyes and breath and voice ever piercing, trap set for the kill.

But something about his words made Watson pull away.

Holmes stopped, those eyes filling Watson's vision. Before they had been roving his face – now they were once again trained on his own, asking the silence question.

Watson couldn't voice it and turned away. Knowing what his actions would tell.

"Mary is ill, isn't she. She has been for some time."

He still said nothing, pulling his hat back in place.

"And she is not likely to regain her health any time soon."

Watson _really _hated when he did this.

"Well…." Watson could hear from his voice equal amounts of commiseration and hope hiding behind the light-hearted words. "If that is the case, which I have no doubt it is from your adverse reaction to the subject, soon you truly will have no obligations to fill-"

"Mary is _dying_, you insufferable prick!"

If it wasn't Holmes, Watson would describe the reaction to his sudden outburst as 'recoiling' – the other man's whole body fairly snapped back. Since it was, he would settle for 'greatly taken aback' as he sat glaring at him, trying to get as much outrage and anger in his voice without showing any of the fear.

"There's a reason I never told you about her illness – I never again wanted to see that smug look of victory on your face, like her death would finally end whatever twisted game you've had playing in your head all these years. You're just the right mixture of selfish and heartless to allow such a slip-up on that steely mask of yours – on which you _so thoroughly rely_ to get you through life without showing a single selfless emotion to _anybody_. It's been six _years_, Holmes, and even if –if you'd 'spelled things out' earlier, and something might have come of it, I still _love_ her and now she's _dying_." His hand felt cold at the abrupt removal of Holmes' own. And they were shaking again. _Damn it._

There was silence between them. For a time that seemed to stretch forever, the two ex-flatmates just sat and stared. Watson was seeing the image again of Holmes dead in that chair; blinking his mind's eye, the face turned from Holmes' to Mary's and back again. He felt sick.

"Sense of integrity," Holmes murmured. The words were nearly lost in the increasing sound of the wind. Without another word he rose and stood beside Watson, looking down at him. After some hesitation, he placed a hand on the doctor's shoulder. "I'm sorry."

Watson would have shrugged the hand away, but he didn't have the strength to be that cruel when Holmes had given him an apology. He said nothing as Holmes walked away, merely gripped the head of his cane with white-knuckled hands, gouging the tip deep into the frozen earth, and prayed for his heart to stop breaking.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Devil Lies In Silence, Part 3**

* * *

It was well after midnight and the cottage fairly shook from the gale raging outside. Watson sat in a chair by the hearth, feeling as if the fire there was doing very little for the places in him that needed warmth the most. When Holmes had left him there on the cliff side he had just sat, wracked with heartbreak and sadness and fury that he tried to get under control. For several minutes his face was turned to the sea, back ramrod straight, eyes glaring at nothing.

He didn't dare entertain the hope. It was all just another horrible trick.

Holmes, the _nerve_ of him. And Mary….

_Mary._

The sickness had made itself known almost six months ago. They'd been strolling arm-in-arm to market of a Sunday; it was just warm enough to make thicker coats unnecessary, but still require some kind of long sleeve to keep the breeze away. He could remember the dress she'd been wearing; the palest of pink, like the inside of a seashell, pearls dangling from her ears and wrapped around her neck – ones he'd paid for himself. He had promised himself that she'd never have to borrow from her employer again, no matter how meager a salary he received. They'd been inspecting a bookseller's stall, she was laughing softly at some amusing comment he'd made, his mouth curved upward under his mustache, eyes warm as they watched her inspect the shelves with an almost analytical kind of attention.

But then she'd stopped as she was overcome with a fit of violent coughing against her sleeve; it had come away from her mouth flecked with blood.

Somehow, she was still strong enough to make occasional public appearances – to quell whatever gossip might start by her continued polite refusals of dinner parties, soirées, and whatever other social occasions might call upon her to attend. While, in the privacy of home, Watson watched, nearly helpless as she wasted away in a separate room from his own – he'd had to move her to ensure she was getting the proper rest, despite her dislike of such an arrangement. He tended her night and day, whenever he wasn't with his patients or with Holmes. His friend had long ago stopped asking after the state of his "false marriage" as the idea of Watson's return grew dimmer and dimmer. So the aging detective naturally never mentioned it when the visits themselves had grown increasingly less frequent, attributing it – mistakenly – to a shrinking necessity on the doctor's part. Watson had felt deeply guilty for it, but he couldn't explain without revealing his wife's condition, and that was one victory he still refused to let Holmes win.

And now he had come on this trip with his old partner, perhaps erroneously, to also try and make some difference in his only friend's wellbeing…and Holmes was using the opportunity as one last ditch effort to pry him away from his house and family. A family that wouldn't be his for very much longer.

These were the thoughts that chased him away from that windy spot and across the moor, blanket tucked military-style under one arm as he used his cane with no small force on the path under his quick-marching feet. Thankfully he'd at least made it inside before the storm broke. But that had been hours ago.

* * *

The doctor was slouched in his seat, legs splayed and arms resting loosely on the stuffed arms of the chair, a glass of brandy – his third for that evening – dangling precariously from the hand farthest from the blaze. Clothes disheveled, he stared at the shadows his legs made on the carpet – inspecting the slivers of light cast by the firelight hitting the crystal of the glass – the only movement being the mechanical stroke of his thumb across the raised ridges of the scar under his collar. He'd been sitting like that since returning to the house. Well…almost since then.

Dark eyes flicked in the direction of the ceiling, vision burning through wood and plaster to see the sleeping quarters and the mess he'd left in them beyond. He'd come home and rushed to the bedrooms upstairs, steely resolve already hardened to the root in his chest, the thoughts banging and clamoring for attention inside his head completely seared away by anger. He was remarkably clearheaded, but he still hadn't noticed where he was until the sight of Holmes' rumpled sheets had registered in his brain. He turned to inspect the tiny room, eyes darting over the slippers beside the bed, the trunk lying open and spilling over the floor, the case of pipes and tobacco sitting on the small table and drawers. The violin and bow leaning in the windowsill.

When Watson had left the room minutes later, the place looked as if some whirling dervish had struck it's fury upon the hapless quarters. Without a thought for the destruction he'd caused, he moved on to his own room, not believing for a second that Holmes wouldn't stoop to hiding the syringe amongst his own things. _He would enjoy that kind of irony. _But after tearing through all the drawers, dumping military-grade starched and pressed suits and shirts all over the spotless floor, it had become obvious that the drug paraphernalia were not to be found. He had little to search through in any case.

The revelation had done little to appease the turmoil stamped across his brow and threading every vein in his body. Finding them would have been expected; _not_ finding them was somehow unsettling. And somehow, it made him furious, because this was the worst trick yet.

_That lying bastard…._

When the door banged opened behind him, breaking his thoughts, he didn't turn around. Gusts of cold night air and the smell of rain and tobacco smoke came wafting over his shoulders as he polished off what was left in his glass. Watson could feel Holmes taking a moment to scrutinize his slumped figure in the sparse light. When he began to speak, Watson could hear him removing his coat and scarf, sensing the heaviness of the weather-drenched wool and tweed as they were hung on the wall.

"You won't believe who I met walking the coast, Watson! Leon Sterdale, the famous lion-hunter spends quite a good deal of time in this seaside seclusion when he isn't traipsing across the jungles of Africa. He seemed rather interested in this whole Cornish horror affair – a bit too much so." Holmes came around to sink in the chair opposite, a large, slightly damp white box balanced on his knees. He continued to voice his thoughts without acknowledging Watson's clammed-up manner. "Mr. Sterdale claims to have been a long-standing friend of the Tregennises, so much a friend that when he received a telegram stating the family's demise – mysterious in itself, as he would not divulge from whom such information was sent and there was no chance of the papers catching wind so soon – but when he learned the news, he canceled his planned trip to the Congo and rushed back, leaving his luggage to travel on the boat without him. Friendship indeed, is it not, to put oneself through the inconvenience of having to retrieve one's belongings from halfway round the world! What do you make of that, old boy?"

Watson gave no response, did not even look as he grasped the neck of the crystal decanter on the table beside him and poured another drink. He drained it in one go.

"Well…I suppose it wouldn't interest you to know that our acquaintance, Mr. Mortimer Tregennis was found dead this afternoon, killed by the same methods which took the life of his poor sister." He paused to see if that got his companion's attention. When it didn't, he carried on with an oddly-placed note of apathy, as if he cared little for the gruesome subject he discussed. "Strangely, I noticed his lamp had been lit – there was a recent smudge of lamp oil on his fingers that matched the trace left on the dial. Now, his bed had been slept in, so that means he must have died sometime this morning – but if that is the case, for what reason would he have the lamp lit at such an early hour? I inspected it closely to discover some strange kind of powder in the smoke-guard -" he produced from his pocket a small white envelope and held it up"- which I collected half of here. I left instructions to the police to look to the rest, but I very much doubt their intelligence is up to the task of taking interest in such blatant evidence, even if it is so generously shoved under their noses. I also went out and purchased an identical lamp to see if I can experiment with and replicate whatever effects the powder may have produced."

Watson felt the hawk-like eyes branding him from across the space. Uneasy fingers lightly drummed against his mysterious parcel – undoubtedly the lamp he had spoken of, but Watson didn't care. Wood popped loudly in the grate as the flame slowly dwindled to coals and sullen embers. Watson's eyes were burning holes in the hearth rug.

"Hmm."

With a sudden flourishing movement, the detective stood and placed the box and envelope in his seat before striding quickly out of the room. Watson finally spared a look at him as he was leaving, seeing the way the dying light and deepening shadow swallowed his lean form as he disappeared deeper into the house. In the silence, the sound of the rain outside seemed deafening.

He wasn't surprised to hear Holmes' faint footsteps ascending the stairs a moment later.

A pause.

_Footsteps going into my room. A small moment for contemplation. And here he comes again._

The steps down the stairs were much slower than they had been going up. Watson couldn't see for the darkness, but he knew Holmes was standing just to the other side of the threshold. Watching him.

"I see you had a lack of faith in my little confession."

"I see you've been cleverer at hiding it this time around," he finally croaked. Was that really his voice? It sounded like he spoke with a throat-full of dust from the grave. The alcohol was making his head worse. He poured another and downed it.

Slow, heavy steps moved closer, stopping just behind the other chair. "I thought you would be happy I was giving up the worst of my vices." The flatness of his tone clearly saying, _You're not having much luck with yours, apparently._

"Except I know why you're doing it. It won't work, Holmes." _Mary is dying. I won't come back to you. After six years, I can't come back now._

Holmes didn't speak for some moments. Watson's eyes were adjusting to the lack of any light; he could just trace the other man's hulking outline. Some small, masochistic part of him wished he could see his face, read the emotions that only he could see, that he knew to be there.

"I know, old boy. It was my last alternative."

The silence between them was heavy with despair, even the rain from outside made the room feel stifled and small. For a moment, it had the ominous, pressing feeling of someone's deathbed. Watson pushed the feeling aside with an angry jerk of his head.

"Watson…." The doctor tensed as Holmes moved with measured steps to kneel in front of him, placing a thin hand lightly on his knee. The worry – _and tenderness_ – in that rich, velvet voice made him want to cover his ears and hide. "Watson, about Mary…don't be silent about this. Let me help you."

He still couldn't see, but he felt Holmes' eyes glance down at his right hand, at the bruised and scabbed knuckles; products of needing to punch stone walls in order to keep a grip on himself. A fact Holmes undoubtedly now knew.

Those reed-like fingers touched his hand gingerly, hoping to lead him away. "Come on, old friend."

_A needle hanging from one limp hand. Eyes rolled into the back of his head. Mouth slack. _

"…Get away from me."

"Come now, Watson, you're obviously drunk. Let's get you up to bed –."

_Gaunt, terrified face and clawing fingers. Body stiff in death._

"Get. _Away_. From me." He needed to remove his hand. And his whole presence. _Now._

Holmes gave a tiny sigh. "Watson, I _am_ sorry about Mary, whatever you may believe –."

_Her body lying still in bed, skin drained white, and a dark stain spread over the pillow._

_I'm surrounded by people waiting for death and I can't stop it._

Something in Watson suddenly and very violently snapped.

He hurled the glass to shatter against the far wall at the same time his hands shot out to grasp the lapel of Holmes' vest, yanking him up with a tiny, surprised gasp to stand on his knees right between Watson's still-spread legs. The sinew of his muscles felt stretched to the point of breaking, he was so tense – he could feel Holmes' spine curving toward him as he tried to compensate his suddenly shifted balance, as Watson pulled and pressed into him all at once. Wanting, burning to make his fury, his fear much more tangibly known. Wanting….

"You…" he could barely push the word out. "_Don't – _say her name." The ferocity in his quiet snarl startled even him; the pain and fire and booze all served to chip away and disintegrate his self-control. But he kept right in the other man's face as he struggled with himself, breathing dark liquor heavily.

"Watson…?" It was a question and a plea and a silken whisper and the hot breath of it ghosted as a small puff of air just across his lips and oh, how much he wanted just then, in that split second of Holmes' surprise, to tear himself to pieces and make him understand. Show him the heart screaming in agony just beneath his ribs.

_We're all being dragged into hell_.

"Nothing…but lies and…deceit," he ground out, so very, very close….

_I'm done with it._

And just as suddenly, the fire was gone – to be replaced with the oozing feeling of self-disgust and sorrow. He pushed Holmes roughly away as he released him, the contents of his stomach rebelling against his will to not be sick, and his head threatening to split in two.

"Go away, Holmes," he whispered, falling back into his chair with a bitter sigh. He was so bloody tired….

Something light reflected into Holmes eyes, making them the only visible part of his face as he stared up with some kind of apprehension from where he'd frozen on the floor. After a long silence, in which Watson could have demanded he leave more forcefully if he didn't feel so exhausted, the other man unfolded his lean body in the darkness and stood. He said nothing as he continued to watch the drunk, crumbling man seated before him. Then he turned and without bumping or tripping over anything, practically slinked away and up the stairs, leaving Watson with nothing but the sound of the lashing rain.


End file.
